


Twelfth Night

by yourdykeinshiningarmor



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Pining, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2015-02-01
Packaged: 2018-03-05 11:10:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3118004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourdykeinshiningarmor/pseuds/yourdykeinshiningarmor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is invited to his aunt's Twelfth Night ball. Sherlock offers to attend with him as a friendly face among strangers, but John's family force him to address his true feelings for Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first attempt at a multi chapter work, so please be patient. I will try to get new chapters uploaded in a timely manner.
> 
> Please let me now what you think with kudos, comments, or constructive criticism. You can also find me on my [ Tumblr ](http://yourdykeinshiningarmor.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Thanks and I hope you enjoy!
> 
> UPDATE 1/20/14: this chapter has now been beta read by [LadyTuesday](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyTuesday/pseuds/LadyTuesday) :) All mistakes are still my own but she has made them considerably less. There have been no plot changes but hopefully things flow a bit better and are more clear!

John trudged up the stairs, thankful that he was finally done at the surgery until after the Christmas holiday, and shuffled though the rather large pile of post that Mrs. Hudson had left on the small hallway table for them. It was mostly bills with a healthy dose of junk mail and adverts, but there was a Christmas card from Harry and a thick, creamy envelope covered in small evergreen trees in alternating colors of red and green. John let out a massive moan of displeasure as he stomped through the open door to the sitting room, noting Sherlock still curled in the same location on the sofa where he had been that morning, dressing gown and all.

John made his way to the kitchen, dropped the post on the table, and turned on the kettle. _Tea is definitely in order_. Grabbing two mugs and the tea from the cabinet, John set them on the counter and arranged the bags in their respective cups. He turned back to the pile and stared until the kettle clicked off. Once the cups were filled with the boiled water, he returned to his staring contest while the tea brewed, then reluctantly leaned forward to pluck the offending envelope off the table. He knew what was inside and putting it off was not going to do him any favors. Slipping a finger in the corner, he lifted the flap up, going slow enough to avoid a nasty paper cut from the thick cardstock. He pulled out the contents and his fears were confirmed. He let out a sigh and took in the listed information; none of it was news to him.

“Who is May Wellington?” Sherlock’s deep baritone called from the sofa.

John looked up, noting that the gray eyes had shifted towards him in the kitchen while the rest of his body remained perfectly in place. John tossed the invitation on the counter, added the milk to both their teas (after a very thorough sniffing), and a copious amount of honey to Sherlock’s. Grabbing the mugs he made his way to the sitting room, placed one in front of Sherlock, and sat back in his chair. The blonde took a tentative sip from the steaming cup before looking up to the expectant globes that had followed him from the kitchen, head tilting slightly so he could continue to gaze at John.

“She’s my aunt,” John finally replied, “My da’s sister.”

“Why have I never heard of her before?”

“Because we aren’t exactly close.” John thought about it for a moment, adding, “although she is probably the next-closest family I’ve got after Harry, though that isn’t saying much.” He took a larger sip of his tea, a small part of him hoping that would be the end of the conversation.

Sherlock rolled over onto this back and looked to a magical spot on the ceiling, contemplating this new information. “And what has she invited you to?” he finally asked, eyes not leaving their new focal point.

John sighed. “She has a Twelfth Night Ball every year. Her excuse to get everyone together over the holidays that doesn’t actually have to compete  _with_ the holidays.”

“But you don’t feel like attending. You find it all superfluous but also feel obligated; why?”

“What is this, twenty questions?” John laughed. He watched his flatmate for minute, the brunette obviously perturbed at not having his query answered immediately. John laughed again at the discomfort before replying. “No, I don’t particularly enjoy it. Costumes and masks aren’t required, but about half the guests still show up in them. Too much glitter and glitz for me, thanks.”

“Yet you feel obligated.” His tone made perfectly clear his vexation at having to repeat himself.

John took a deep breath and large swig of his tea to calm himself. He wasn’t overly fond of talking about his broken family but it definitely beat Sherlock deducing it out of him, something the detective had been trying to do less of lately, at least when it came to John.

“She helped us a lot growing up,” he began. “Believe it or not, my da’s family comes from money, something to do with shipping.” John fidgeted in chair, uncomfortable with talking about his family. “I never did find out what started it all, but Da estranged himself as a young man, met my mother, and started a family; it sounds like a Jane Austen novel.” He took another sip of tea before he continued. “Most of the extended family didn’t condone it, Mum not being from money herself, and condemned him. His parents and sisters never did, only ever wanting to help him, but the damage was done.”

John paused again, eyes lost in reminiscence. “He always drank too much. After he died, Aunt May would send Harry and me cards, always filled with money. It was small to start with,” he laughed at the memory, “she didn’t want to upset my mum who had refused her help several times before. But she sent more the older we got.” John frowned now, looking down into his mostly-empty mug. Speaking softly, almost too low to hear, John continued, “Harry’s mostly went to booze, always a little too much like our da. Mine mostly went to pay the rent or buy us food.”

Through it all, Sherlock didn’t make a sound or move a muscle, instead absorbing and filing away this new information about his flatmate. John constantly amazed him. Sometimes it was big things- like saving Sherlock from the cabbie- but often it was the little things. A mug of tea waiting for him on the table, buying Sherlock’s favorite biscuits instead of his own, or the personal information that was obviously painful to recount but he still trusted Sherlock enough to share it. Sherlock tilted his head towards the blonde before finally swinging his legs down and facing the man square on. He looked for a moment then grabbed his tea from the table without taking his eyes from John.

“You feel obligated to attend as some small form of repayment, but the throng of unknown people and distant relations makes you uncomfortable.” Sherlock paused, thinking. “This year is especially difficult, as you haven’t been since before you left to Afghanistan, last year claiming you were still healing after you were discharged.  Even so, she still sends you money.”

John frowned then glared at Sherlock over the top of the mug that he had stopped  most of the way to his lips.

“You know I hate it when you do that.”

Sherlock shrank a little; John sighed.

“Sorry,” he said, “it’s just a touchy subject. And yes, you’re brilliantly correct as usual. She sticks to the big holidays but, yes, still sends us money.”

Sherlock relaxed a bit at the praise, careful not to seem too proud, his mind working again.

“Perhaps, I can be of assistance.”

He paused looking to John, whose eyes turned to him, head tilting to the left in question.

“Assuming it wouldn’t be inappropriate to insinuate myself, I would be willing to accompany you, give you one friendly face among the masses.” He carefully assessed the effect the words had on John. “That’s assuming that my presence would be a benefit to you and not a hindrance.”

John sat still for a moment, not quite sure what to make of the offer. Sherlock had just volunteered to place himself in a room full of complete strangers to help John. John stayed silent, unsure how to respond.

“I promise to behave myself,” Sherlock added, voice a little uneven, eyes tracking to the fireplace on John’s left to avoid the doctor’s uncertain gaze.  _Perhaps it was a mistake to offer to accompany him._

John shook his head. “You would do that for me? I know how  _tedious_ and  _pedestrian_ you find the masses,” he mimicked Sherlock’s tone, smile dancing on his lips.

Sherlock face assumed a mask of indifference but his eyes twinkled. “If you are capable of shooting a man for me, then perhaps I can stand a night of frivolity among mere  _mortal humans_ ,” Sherlock mimicking John this time.

John laughed, appreciating their easy friendship not for the first time. “So long as you really don’t mind, Sherlock.” He looked at the man across from him. “I could suffer through it on my own if you don’t think you can stand it.”

The detective’s lips twitched as he stood. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to accompany you,” finishing with a flourish of his hand and deep bow towards John.

John tossed his head back in laughter, Sherlock joining in. His flatmate was most definitely a complete nutter.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John arrive at Aunt May's and get ready for the Ball.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the next chapter, I hope you all enjoy. And thanks to all who commented and gave kudos last chapter. It definitely encouraging to get good feedback. :)
> 
> Again please let me know what you think by way of comments, kudos, or constructive criticism. You can also find me on [Tumblr](http://yourdykeinshiningarmor.tumblr.com/).
> 
> UPDATE 1/24/15: Just like the last, got this chapter beta read by [LadyTuesday](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyTuesday/pseuds/LadyTuesday). All errors are still my own but she has made them less!

John tossed the last of his accoutrements into the day bag, already feeling anxious at the thought of the ball that night. His aunt had been delighted when he’d called to say he was coming and had nearly fainted away when he asked if he could bring his flatmate along. John had given his usual protests of “he’s just a friend,” and “I’m not gay,” but Aunt May didn’t hear a word of it. He knew she worried about him, and even if they weren’t particularly close, he was fond of the woman. If she was happy at the thought (albeit false) that John had someone in his life, then who was he to stop it? She was going on 84 years old, after all. In some ways, he supposed she was right, he did have someone- Lord knew that Sherlock kept him busy enough- but it would never be like _that_. To Sherlock, he was a partner in crime (sometimes solving it), a flatmate, a friend… but nothing more. That’s as far as the detective’s interest in John went.

 

He pulled the zip closed on the small bag and picked up a suit bag with his dress uniform in it. That had been the other half of the conversation, convincing John to wear his mess dress to the ball “just this once”, Aunt May always having been proud of his choice to serve Queen and Country. It was the least he could do for her.

 

John marched his way down the stairs from his bedroom, spine perhaps a little stiffer than usual, and stepped into the sitting room. Sherlock was peering down the eyepiece of his microscope but John noticed the suit bag laid neatly over the back of his chair, the ever present Belstaff and blue scarf already draped around the lanky figure.

 

“Mycroft’s car should be here shortly,” he remarked, not taking his eyes off the sample.

 

“Thanks for that, by the way,” he said, moving into the room and setting his bags next to Sherlock’s on the chair.

 

John hadn’t given much thought to how they would get to his aunt’s house north of Cambridge. Sherlock, having no qualms about taking advantage of Mycroft’s excessive means, had saved them the trouble of hiring a cab or finagling their way on public transport. John grabbed his coat from the hook by the door and shrugged it on. He peaked out the window at the clear blue sky and decided a scarf and gloves would be good too, shoving them into his pockets; the apparently good-looking weather belied an utterly bone chilling cold that persisted outside.

 

There was a soft beep of a horn outside the window. Sherlock made one more notation in his notebook before looking up. “Shall we then?” he asked, grabbing his suit bag and heading out the door without waiting for a response.

 

The drive out was pleasant enough, the two men alternating between discussing current cases and sitting in companionable silence. The Ball itself wasn’t until later that evening, but Aunt May had insisted that they arrive early enough to take tea at four, together with Harry and Clara, John was surprised to hear.

 

The car turned off the A10 and onto a smaller country road. Another ten minutes of driving and they were travelling up a sweeping drive to the manor house. Compared to some of the houses in the area, it was modest, but to John it would always be a mansion. It was a long and low building, only two stories tall (although most of the roof was flat and accessible, making it a thoroughly usable outdoor third story) but made up for its lack of height in the almost obscene number of windows that it sported. The profusion of windows scattered throughout the mansion took full advantage of the small hillside, looking out over the surrounding countryside. The outside was an amalgamation of red, beige, and gray brick that almost made the house seem to shimmer, in a muted sort of way. Several balconies were visible from the drive and John knew that the back of the house was similarly speckled with balconies and terraces, both public and private. English ivy weaved its way around the window sills and railings, kept ruthlessly in control by his aunt’s gardeners.

 

The car had barely come to a stop when the front door was thrown open and a wiry old woman stepped out, arms waving over her head in excitement as she made her way down the front steps. Sherlock noted that she bore a striking resemblance to John, assuming he was aged quite a bit and female, the short but strong Watson body and the still-mostly-blonde hair firmly marking them as family. John dropped his head at the sight, embarrassment already coloring his cheeks. John took a deep breath before looking towards Sherlock, frown covering his face when he saw the smile spreading across the detective’s.

 

“Oi! You’re supposed to be on my team here, mate,” he paused a moment, fingers moving to point out the window, “not my bloody raving aunt’s!”

 

Sherlock laughed at John’s tone, one of mirth despite the accusatory words. He made a poor attempt to school his features. “Apologies, Captain.” He feigned remorse, until the energetic woman started waving and calling John’s name through the window. Sherlock’s chest began heaving of its own accord.

 

“You laugh now, but the woman will be all over you,” John paused and gesticulated towards the detective this time, “what with your curls and cheekbones, looking all handsome and clever.” He nodded, giving Sherlock one last serious look. “We’ll see who’s laughing at the end.” John opened the car door and stepped into the open arms of his aunt.

 

Sherlock stopped laughing and was momentarily stilled. He was used to John’s praise about his deductions and detective work, but never once had John remarked on his appearance. For just a moment, Sherlock felt his heartbeat double.

 

Aunt May ushered them inside, eager to escape the chill. Once there, having divested the men of their outerwear, she finally lavished a proper greeting on her nephew.

 

“Oh, Johnny dear, it is so nice to see you!” she said, engulfing John in a huge hug before turning to Sherlock. “And who’s this handsome man?” May asked silkily, sliding over to the detective in a way that only a confident older woman could get away with.

 

John smiled and lifted his eyebrows at Sherlock, silently sending him an _I told you so_. “Aunt May, this is Sherlock Holmes; Sherlock, my Aunt May.”

 

Aunt May extended her hand towards Sherlock, who instantly became Mr. Debonair. He captured her hand in his and pressed a soft kiss to her knuckles.

 

“The pleasure is all mine I assure you, madam.” Sherlock crooned, bowing slightly.

 

Aunt May broke out into giggles, waving a friendly hand in Sherlock’s direction. “Oh my boy, I am far too old to be called ‘madam’ anymore.” She took a breath to calm herself. “And much too irreverent, besides. Please, just call me May or Aunt May if you’d prefer.”

 

“Aunt May it is, then,” a wide grin covering his face.

 

Aunt May turned to John, whispering much too loudly and with a mischievous grin on her face, “You’ve got yourself a nice one.”

 

Before John could offer any kind of protest, Aunt May turned back to Sherlock. “You two must be famished. If you don’t need to freshen up, we may as well head the parlor and take tea now.” When a quick glance between the two both men met with no protest she continued, “Excellent! I believe Harry and Clara are already there.” Without further ado, she laced her hand through the crook of Sherlock’s arm and led the way.

 

Tea went surprisingly well, with both Sherlock and Harry behaving themselves. Harry and Clara couldn’t seem to keep their hands off each other; they were back on now that Harry was three months sober. John hoped for both of them that she could stay that way. Sherlock, much to John’s surprise, continued to be a perfect gentleman. Not that the detective couldn’t be when it suited him, but there was no prize at the end of it for his behavior here so his compliance had John stumped. Sherlock dutifully answered every question, from his job to his family to his favorite sweets, and never made a single deduction about the present company.

 

Eventually, Aunt May was called away to direct the final preparations for the Ball, leaving the four of them do what they wanted until then.

 

As she rose from her chair, she turned to John, “I’ve had your things put into the Blue Room.”

 

John smiled at his aunt’s choice to do the rooms based on a color scheme instead of crazy locations or historical people.

 

“I know you said you wouldn’t be staying the night,” she paused a moment glancing between him and Sherlock, “but I figured you would at least appreciate somewhere private to get yourselves ready, and well….” she shrugged her shoulders, a half smile tugging at her lips as she turned to leave.

 

John couldn’t help but feel a sense of dread at what antics his aunt might be up to.

 

Harry and Clara finished their tea, rising to leave right on the heels of Aunt May. “We’re in Purple, by the way,” Clara called over her shoulder as the pair passed through the doors, wide smile on her lips, and detective and blogger were left alone.

 

They sat in easy silence for several minutes before John looked at the clock. The ball didn’t start for another hour and a half. “Fancy a quick tour before we head up?” He turned towards Sherlock, waiting for an answer.

 

Sherlock drained his glass, standing after setting it neatly on the tray. “Why, my good sir,” he replied in a mocking posh tone, “I would be delighted,” finishing with a slight bow.

 

John merely laughed. “Come on, you great git.” John set his cup next to Sherlock’s and hauled himself up from his spot at the end of the sofa.

 

They exited the parlor and began wandering the hallways, John pointing out the various rooms as they passed. They were climbing the stairs, heading towards the bedrooms, when John remarked, “I’m not sure if I should be happy or afraid,” he snuck a quick glance at Sherlock, “but I appreciate you tolerating my aunt and behaving yourself.”

 

Sherlock smiled, the genuine one that saved for the doctor, _his doctor_. “Anything for you John.” Sherlock adjusted his step slightly, bringing himself closer to John. The detective eyed John in his periphery, noting how the words and distance affected him. “Although your aunt isn’t nearly as intolerable as you make her out to be. She really is a charming woman.”

 

John beamed at the praise, knowing that as far as family went, his aunt really was a nice person and always aware of what others needed, even if her enthusiasm for certain things made her seem over the top. “I know… I guess it’s just one of those ‘they’re family and it seems terribly embarrassing to me’ things.”

 

Sherlock nodded in agreement; Mycroft was his brother, after all.

 

As they meandered, John didn’t know if Sherlock meant to walk with their elbows nearly brushing, but he wasn’t going to complain about it. He’d resigned himself long ago to the fact that Sherlock was “married to his Work” and took any extra bit of the detective that he could get. While he knew no one occupied a closer place to the detective than John, a part of his heart still mourned the loss of a relationship that had never even started.

 

Sherlock, ever observant, noticed that the wall sconce outside each door was decorated with a small colored flag. He gestured at one, noting, “These denote the color of each room?”

 

John’s head swiveled to where Sherlock’s fingers were pointing. “Yeah,” he agreed, “she wanted to keep it simple.” They passed two more doorways. “This is us,” John pointed out, turning into the small entry way and opening the door.

 

When Aunt May called it the Blue Room, she meant it. Walls, rugs, bedding, and decorations were all in tones of blue, yet somehow she had managed to get them to flow together and work in harmony instead of imparting a feeling of drowning in a too blue ocean. Creams, golds, and beiges were used as accent and transition colors, bringing the room together into a cohesive whole. A large four-poster stood to the left of the center of the room, flanked by two mahogany end tables. Sherlock could see their suit bags hanging in the matching wardrobes straight ahead of them, both his tuxedo and John’s uniform already airing out. The door to the right led to the ensuite bathroom.

 

John walked over to the bed. “You can use the shower first, if you’d like,” he said, flopping himself down on the bed. His heart was unexpectedly heavy with all the emotion that had been percolating. “Suddenly feel like I want to rest my eyes for a bit.”

 

Sherlock nodded in silent acknowledgement, easily seeing that John was overwhelmed and needed a bit of space to prepare for tonight. He strode over to the wardrobe, grabbed his bag and suit before heading into the bathroom and shutting the door.

 

John readjusted himself after he heard the soft click of the door latch, turning onto his back and sprawling himself out. He kept his eyes closed, his thoughts drifting over towards the bathroom, specifically to the man inside. If he was honest with himself, a large part of him still hoped for some kind of deeper relationship with his friend. John really didn’t mind what they had now; he was perfectly okay with being Sherlock’s friend, flatmate, and colleague. It was times like this, though- when the detective shed his outer skin and acted like the human that John knew lurked below the surface- that he found it difficult to resist the desire for more. As John’s thoughts drifted, so did his consciousness, his brain suddenly filling the visual void his waking body was deficient in.

 

_Water sluicing down Sherlock’s alabaster skin… lying atop taut muscles and the sharp angles of hips and arms and legs. Tanned hands running down Sherlock’s body- caressing and teasing. Tongue travelling from the dimple above his right hip over his spine to nape of his neck, sucking the water in as if it was the only thing keeping him alive_.

 

Distantly, part of his brain noted the turning of the taps and end of the shower spray, but his subconscious awareness continued its exploring and cataloguing of the great Consulting Detective.

 

_Sherlock turned and faced John, long fingers carding through his hair. John heard his name, barely louder than a whisper_. He lifted his eyes to meet Sherlock’s and suddenly found himself wide awake.

 

“John,” Sherlock breathed, fingers still carding through his short blonde hair. “You need to wake up. We’re already going to be late as it is.”

 

John was immediately aware of two things: first, that Sherlock was sitting in front of him on the bed where John had rolled over at some point and curled himself into a ball. He was continuing to caress John’s scalp in an attempt to wake him up in as gentle of a manner was possible, for which John was thankful for. It had only taken one particularly well-aimed right hook to teach Sherlock to wake him gently or from very far away, as he was usually wont to do. Secondly, was that John had an erection. It was nothing alarming but obvious enough to be noticeable, especially when one was in the company of a deduction genius.

 

Without any verbal acknowledgement of Sherlock’s words, John jumped up and sprinted to the bathroom, quick to hide his embarrassment. Once behind the door, he allowed himself to breathe as he decided not to think about how intimate and wonderful it had been to feel those long delicate fingers dancing through his hair and along his scalp. His head still tingled where the tips had made contact with his skin.

 

John pushed himself off the door and made his way to the shower, turning the knob to get the water flowing. He only took a moment to get the temperature right before slipping out of his clothes and under the spray. Letting the water wash away his tension, his hands flitted across his chest and he decided that it wouldn’t hurt any to ease the tension down below either, his hands slowly drifting downwards.

 

Sherlock stared at the door, not quite in shock but unable to find a better word for it at the moment. He had tried to wake John gently but couldn’t fathom what had caused the man to rush off towards the loo without a word, as he was neither excited at the prospect of the Ball nor overly worried about being marginally late. Perhaps he had been embarrassed at the slight erection he was sporting, but Sherlock had noticed bigger ones from John and, being male himself, was not wholly unfamiliar with the occurrence.

 

Sherlock picked himself up and meandered over towards what he had termed ‘the library’: the corner of the bedroom with a small reading chair and a pair of bookshelves. He smoothly spun the small end table around and flopped himself into the chair, allowing the momentum of the fall to fling his legs up onto the table. He brought his steepled fingers under his chin and began to contemplate the problem that was John H. Watson, army captain, doctor, friend, and blogger.

 

Perhaps John’s anxiety had something to do with the fact that his aunt obviously thought of them as a couple. She hadn’t said it in as many words but had insinuated it, which Sherlock picked up on immediately, expecting John to express his usual protests at the subject. When none came, he had examined the situation further, taking in more data as it was provided. Aunt May was obviously very pleased that John had found someone; the fact that Sherlock was male did not perturb her in the slightest. So it was obviously not a fear of rejection like Harry had experienced in her youth from others. It was also obvious that while John did not correct the assumption, he made no effort to back it up in either word or action. Sherlock turned back to their interactions over the last few months, determined to deduce the source of the anxiety as either the thought that others believed him to be gay (which seemed more likely) or that he was actually harboring feelings for the detective that went beyond those he expressed as simple friend and flatmate (which Sherlock would never imagine happening). That they had grown much closer, especially since the “Pool Incident”, was obvious, but neither had commented or noted it consciously. There were lingering touches here and there, and their sense of personal space had been redefined to much smaller distances. Much smaller than was socially acceptable for just friends, but again, neither of them had commented or complained. Besides, what was ‘normal’ other than a set of arbitrary rules and stipulations that society deemed must be followed? _Boring_.

 

Sherlock heard the shower turn off, followed by a stream of muted curses. He glanced at the wardrobe and smirked. Sherlock removed himself from the chair and grabbed John’s uniform and bag before striding towards the ensuite. He gave the door a sharp rap with his knuckles, and a moment later it was cracked open as a confused Watson peeked his head out. He couldn’t resist a smile as he held up the bags for John to see. The door opened wider and two hands darted out to grab the bags from Sherlock’s hands. The detective started giggling and was sure he heard a pointed “Shut it!” that was most certainly not directed at the door that was whipped closed by John’s heel. He returned to his chair, patiently strolling around his mind palace while waiting for John.

 

It was some time later that John emerged to find Sherlock obviously lost in his mind palace. He stopped a few steps away from the small table the detective had turned into a foot stool, lingering nearby until Sherlock came back to the present. John looked down and fiddled with the end of his jacket, tugging it down for the umpteenth time when he heard a whisper.

 

“You look… stunning.”

 

John looked up to find Sherlock right in front of him, hardly surprised at all that he hadn’t heard the man get up and unstartled by his sudden appearance. What _had_ startled him was the reverent tone and the blatant look of want that he swore was in Sherlock’s eyes, but the darkness of the room that was surrounding them left the piercing grey eyes in shadow.

 

“Sorry?” John whispered back, afraid a normal tone would break the moment.

 

“I said, ‘you look stunning,’” his voice also soft.

 

At this, a part of John’s mind began to worry. Not only had Sherlock repeated himself, he hadn’t complained about it. The detective had also taken half a step back, eyes raking over John, taking in his full form. When their eyes met again, both men were at a loss for words; they simply stood, staring. Just when John was sure he saw Sherlock begin to lean in, decreasing the space by millimeters, there was a loud pounding at the door.

 

“Oi, boys! You ready yet?”

 

Without waiting for a reply, the door opened and Harry stepped inside. John and Sherlock jumped apart, turning to face the door, but a twitch on Harry’s lips said she saw it all anyways. She flipped the light switch, taking a proper look at John and stopped in her tracks.

 

“Oh, Johnny, you look magnificent!” She came closer half circling around him to get the full effect. “You’re lucky your Aunt May’s nephew or she’d be all over you,” she said, smirking, “you know how she likes her military boys.”

 

John laughed, looking down at his feet at the praise. “Ta,” he muttered.

 

Harry looked towards Sherlock before saying, “If you two love birds are done, we should head down. Aunt May is already anxious that you’re not there.”

 

John went to correct Harry, mouth opening in a retort, when Sherlock blurted, “Why yes, of course. Just give me one moment.” John stared, mouth still hanging open, as the taller man darted over to the wardrobe, quickly donning his waistcoat and jacket before returning to the pair.

 

“After you,” he gestured to Harry and John. John gave a quick glance at Sherlock before heading out, the brunette bringing up the rear and closing the door to the room on their way out.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Ball begins and everyone is having a good time but things seldom run so smoothly for John and Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always please let me know what you think with kudos, comments, or constructive criticism. You can also find me on my [Tumblr](http://yourdykeinshiningarmor.tumblr.com/). 
> 
> I meant to get this up at the end of last week but I went to the Sherlock Seattle Con (which was quite fun and amazing!) and there wasn't any time for writing. So sorry for the delay and I hope you enjoy!
> 
> UPDATE 1/24/15: now beta read by [LadyTuesday](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyTuesday/pseuds/LadyTuesday) All mistakes are still my own but she has made them less! 
> 
> Also hoping to have the next chapter up within a few days, so thanks for your patience!

Aunt May was standing in the doorway of the ballroom where the Ball was taking place, greeting the last few guests to arrive. She turned at the sound of footsteps to see Harry, Clara, John, and Sherlock coming down the hall. She felt her breath catch in chest.

 

“John, darling,” she breathed, gently squeezing his shoulders as he came to a stop in front of her, “you look simply divine.” Her eyes flicked up to Sherlock, slightly evil grin spreading across her face. “I honestly don’t know how you two even made it this far with such a delectable sight! I wouldn’t’ve even left the bedroom….” She wiggled her eyebrows, as if her words weren’t clear enough.

 

Harry laughed, Clara snorted, Sherlock turned a frightful shade of pink, and John attempted to stammer some rebuttal.  Unsuccessfully. Aunt May simply giggled at the sight.

 

“I must say,” the woman continued, “that the added color to your cheeks accents your outfit quite nicely.”

 

John turned towards Sherlock, noting the deepening color of his cheeks. He also noted, for the first time, that the color of his waistcoat and tie were the same deep shade as the “purple shirt of sex” (so named John’s head) that Sherlock preferred wearing (and John preferred appreciating). He felt the hint of desire pooling in his abdomen but steadfastly ignored it; this was most definitely _not_ the time.

 

Sherlock opened his mouth before quickly closing it, for once unsure of what to say. He decided to study the tips of his shoes instead as Aunt May continued her good-natured giggles.

 

“And who might these dashing young folks be?” came a raspy, deep voice from behind Aunt May, saving Sherlock from his awkwardness.

 

The whole group turned towards the voice, Aunt May’s face instantly lighting up.

 

“Richard!” She took a step towards him, placing a quick kiss to his cheek. Aunt May turned back to the group. “Richard, these delightful creatures are my niece Harry, her Clara, my nephew John, and his Sherlock,” gesturing to each person in turn. “Everyone, this is Richard,” the smile spreading even further across her face as she said it.

 

Richard was a tall fellow, hair white with age. That he was a jovial was obvious with the laugh lines visible around his mouth and eyes. He, too, was wearing his mess dress; John’s eyes quickly danced across the ribbons on the man’s chest, the familiar feeling of awe and humility spreading through him whenever he met another war veteran, especially one as well decorated as Richard.

 

“Well, it is a pleasure to meet you all. I’ve heard a great deal since we heard you would be attending.”

 

Harry jokingly piped in, “All good things I hope?”

 

“Naturally,” he replied, with a genuine smile.

 

“He,” Aunt May gestured, lacing her hand in the crook of Richard’s elbow as she looked at John, “is the only reason I’ll not be attached to you for the whole evening.”

 

John let out a chuckle, glad to see the happiness pouring off of both of them, before saying, “Well, Richard certainly is getting the better end of the deal.”

 

From somewhere inside the hall, the music began to pick up, switching from a quiet background piece to a more upbeat tune. The small group decided made their way inside, noticing that some guests had already taken to the dance floor. It didn’t take long for John to actually appreciate the organized chaos that was the Ball. Aunt May still insisted on dragging him around and introducing him to all her friends, obviously very proud of her nephew. All the action left him no time to think about what had just happened with Sherlock up in their bedroom, his mind too busy interacting with guests and desperately trying to memorize names, especially those of the myriad of cousins that were present, many of which he didn’t remember meeting before. He was pleasantly surprised, though, at the number of faces still familiar from being here in his youth.

 

Given that his uniform was a natural conversation starter and booster, John and Sherlock to got separated quickly. He would catch glimpses of the brunette around the room - talking to Harry or one of the guests, even taking Harry and Clara each out for a turn on the dance floor - only feeling mildly jealous at missing out on the action. They were only fleeting glimpses but Sherlock appeared to be genuinely enjoying himself. John smiled to himself, glad his friend was happy even if he wasn’t the direct cause of it.

 

“So who is Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Handsome over there?” one of John’s cousins, Peter, asked. Peter was probably the closest thing to a friend he had here beyond his immediate group, having seen Peter several times over the years at the few family functions he had been to growing up.

 

John brought himself back to the present company. “Mmm, sorry, what?” he asked, turning to Peter.

 

Peter nodded in Sherlock’s direction. “Him, that you keep following around the room.”

 

John felt his cheeks flush slightly, briefly examining the toes of his shoes. “Oh, that’s just my flatmate, Sherlock.” He tried to make it sound as nonchalant as possible.

 

“Flatmate, hmm?” Peter gave him a cheeky grin. “Is that what they’re calling it these days?”

 

John’s jaw dropped open. “He’s…,” he stuttered, face now turning an awful shade of crimson, “I’m not….”

 

Peter just laughed. “Calm down. I was just poking a bit of fun.” He glanced back over towards Sherlock. “Although, if you want the truth, his eyes have been on you all evening.”

 

John stared back, not sure how to take this information. It was one thing for John to track Sherlock’s movements, a habit born from a detective getting into trouble when John lost him on a case, but Sherlock was rarely aware of John’s location.

 

His thoughts were interrupted when a resounding chorus of “Kiss, kiss, kiss!” came from the other side of the room. It was the seventh time that night, mistletoe having been hung in various places around the room in a desperate attempt to keep the Christmas spirit alive. John peered over to see a quite tipsy Clara leaning over to place a kiss on the cheek of one of his aunt’s neighbors, hoots and hollers following the peck. None were exempt from the threat of the mistletoe and John was more than happy to keep to the center of the room, although he had a nagging suspicion that the staff kept changing the locations to catch even more people.

 

After giving Peter a look that made it perfectly clear he didn’t want to discuss Sherlock, John started to make his way towards where Harry and Clara were beside the beverage table, his own glass of wassail empty. John grinned at the pair as he filled his glass.

 

“Having fun you two?” He lifted his eyebrows in question about the previous spectacle.

Harry just laughed as Clara rocked her head forward almost violently in her enthusiasm. Up close, John could tell she was actually quite drunk. Harry, he was glad to notice, was still completely sober, glass of water firmly in hand to give her an easy excuse not to be tempted. Harry noticed the flit of John’s eyes towards Clara and her own glass, guessing at his thoughts.

 

“She’s not usually like this, and yes, I really am just drinking water.” Harry looked to where Clara was now dancing with one of their many cousins before turning back and smiling at John, an honest one that he hadn’t seen in many years.

 

“I know, on both counts,” he returned. He took a sip of his own drink before continuing, “I really am proud of you, Harry. I know some say that three months isn’t that long but you’re still trying and that’s what counts. Even when you’ve relapsed, you always still try again.”

 

Harry looked down at her feet, a little embarrassed at the praise. “Yeah, well, I’ve got the proof right in front of me that it just takes the right person believing in you to make it stick.” She glanced at Clara again before shifting her eyes to Sherlock, standing near one of the patio doors and talking to Peter. John glanced over his shoulder to follow her stare and realized what she was talking about.

 

“What’s going on between you two anyway? I know I joke with you a lot, but seriously, what gives?”

 

John continued to look at the detective, unsure of how to the answer the question. He was unprepared for when Sherlock looked towards John and their eyes locked. For just a moment, everyone and everything seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of them. Sherlock’s lips parted in heavenly smile that John had only ever seen thrown at him, before Sherlock turned back to the conversation with Peter. John felt a tiny bit of loss but it was overshadowed by the happy flutters still in his stomach.

 

John turned back to Harry, the look on her face making it quite clear that it would be useless to lie.

 

“I don’t know,” he settled on. It was partially the truth after all. “He’s my best friend and I would do anything for him, and I know it’s the same for him. It’s just…,” he paused, not really sure what to say. “Sometimes… sometimes he….”

 

He glanced around to look at Sherlock again and stopped when his eyes caught sight of Sherlock and Peter in the doorway to the terrace. Peter was clearly flirting with Sherlock and John was surprised to find that Sherlock appeared to be flirting back! What nearly stopped John’s heart, though, was when he noticed the huge sprig of mistletoe above them. Silently he hoped that no one else would notice, but just as the thought popped in his head, the chant began anew. John watched helplessly as both men looked up, exchanged a few words, shrugged, then leaned in for seemed liked a chaste but interested kiss on the lips. The crowd howled again, completely lacking in shame at the antics of the evening.

 

John turned back to Harry, unable to hide the pained look on his face. She grasped at something to say that didn’t sound cheesy or out of a box, but before she could think of anything, her brother roughly pushed past her towards the quiet little side room where his aunt had set up a buffet and some tables.

 

“John,” she pleaded grabbing at his wrist.

 

He shook her off saying, “I just need….” but he walked off without finishing his thought.

 

\------------

 

Sherlock was standing in the corner observing John. He seemed to be tolerating the attention well, no signs of panic or discomfort. In fact, the few times they had come together in conversation or made eye contact, it seemed as if he was enjoying himself.

 

“Do you realize how much he fancies you?”

 

Sherlock turned towards the voice, finding an average-looking blonde standing next to him, a bit taller than John but with the same piercing blue eyes. He raked his memory for who this man was… _Ah, yes, Peter. One of the cousins_.

 

“Pardon?”

 

“John. The little blonde army fellow,” Peter answered, vaguely lifting his hand towards the man in question.

 

“I am afraid I do not know of what you speak. John is a dear friend, but I assure you he has no interest in anything more.”

 

Peter nodded his head slowly. “But you do,” he stated simply.

 

Sherlock glared at the man, trying to find the reason for his statement. “I’m afraid that what either John or I want is none of your business.” His words came out with more fire than he intended but not more than he felt at the intrusion on his privacy. He resisted the urge to take the man apart. He had promised John that he would behave, after all.

 

Peter took a step back, hands flying up to his chest, palms out in surrender. “Calm down, tiger. I was just telling you what I observed.” Peter let the words sink in before continuing, “That is what you do, isn’t it. See what others can’t?”

 

Sherlock stilled, again trying to discern what Peter was playing at. He narrowed his eyes at the man, letting the deductions in but dutifully keeping his mouth shut. _Mid-thirties, working in the fashion industry, long-term partner, has an advanced degree in business_. Although Sherlock loathed that he now considered his gut feelings (John was rubbing off on him), it definitely told him that this man was intelligent, much in the same way John was, much in the way he could tolerate.

 

“You’re deducing me, aren’t you?”

 

Sherlock merely harrumphed.

 

Peter laughed. “Well, come on then. What did you observe?” Peter looked at him expectantly.

 

“I promised John no deductions. Apparently I like to inadvertently hurt people’s _feelings_.”

 

Peter chuckled some more. “I promise to not be offended. I’m from London myself and enjoy reading about you lot in the paper’s and on John’s blog. To see you in action would be quite amazing, I’d imagine.”

 

Sherlock thought about it for a moment. Peter appeared to be telling the truth about his desire and really Sherlock couldn’t turn down someone _asking_ him to show off. He glanced over his shoulder towards John. John just happened to be looking at Sherlock at that same moment and he couldn’t help the smile the spread across his face, his “John Smile.” Sherlock turned back to Peter, considering him for a moment more, before speaking.

 

“Early to mid-thirties,” he began, unconsciously slipping into detective mode, his tone clipped and words concise, “based on your companionship with John. Your limited friendship born of seeing each other often during childhood and being close enough in age to freely interact with one another. Your suit is bespoke to you and the cut isn’t something commercially available; you work in the fashion industry. Your hands are calloused on the side of your index fingers and the pads from repeated use of a needle and thread. You design and sew garments. The band your right ring finger says long term partner, serious but not married or you would have the ring on your left hand. And the ring on your left index finger is from an exclusive business college in London, indicating an advanced business degree, one specialized to fashion and the garment industry based on the inscription.” He paused for a moment. “Do you want me to continue?”

 

Peter’s jaw had dropped as he listened. “That was… amazing!” His awe at the spectacle genuine.

 

Sherlock couldn’t help the small smile that pulled at his lips, lowering his head slightly in embarrassment, still unused to praise. He shuffled a bit on his feet as Peter continued.

 

“I can see why John is so fond of you.” He smiled gently at Sherlock. “You are definitely one odd duck, but there is more to the Great Consulting Genius than the papers let on.”

 

Sherlock examined his shoes closely before looking up at Peter through his eyelashes, still too self-conscious to look the man in the eye. He normally wasn’t this affected by the opinions of others. Perhaps the alcohol was affecting him more than he anticipated.

 

Eventually he managed to mumble, “Thank you, I suppose.”

 

Peter just laughed, lightly touching Sherlock on the shoulder. Sherlock joined in his mirth. However, his joy was short-lived as a chorus of “kiss, kiss, kiss” filled the air again and Sherlock instantly remembered where they were standing. Peter looked just as shocked as Sherlock felt, so he hadn’t intended for this to happen.

 

“There is no point in trying to protest. I guarantee the punishment from Aunt May is infinitely worse.”

 

Sherlock desperately tried to think of a reason but was only able to mutter, “But I don’t do _this_.” His meaning perfectly clear.

 

“Just close your eyes and imagine I’m John.” Peter even bent his knees a bit to bring himself closer to John’s height.

 

Sherlock let out a closed-mouth laugh at Peter and the crowd’s unrelenting chanting, the delay simply ramping up the anticipation. The men locked eyes and shrugged simultaneously before leaning in and pressing warm lips to the others. It wasn’t exactly unpleasant but he found that he would feel much more satisfied if the lips truly belonged to John. When he pulled back he saw the grin on Peter’s face fall. Sherlock glanced over his shoulder in time to see John pushing his way out of the room, clearly angry at what he had just witnessed. Sherlock made to follow him, explain it was nothing but tradition, but a hand at his elbow stopped him.

 

“No, give him some time.”

 

Sherlock turned back, anger and protectiveness flaring up. “But John is upset! He needs me!”

 

“What he needs is to calm down for a moment and come to his senses. If you go in there now, you two will end up having a domestic and causing a scene.” Peter paused, letting his words sink in. “Come on,” he gently pulled Sherlock towards the terrace, “let’s get some air and give John some space for the moment.”

 

Peter looked over to Harry and locked his pleading eyes with hers. She nodded, understanding what she needed to do, and followed John out of the hall as Peter took Sherlock onto the terrace.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the next chapter. Please let me know what you think with kudos, comments, or constructive criticism. You can also find me on my [Tumblr](http://yourdykeinshiningarmor.tumblr.com).
> 
> Thanks to the wonderful [LadyTuesday](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyTuesday/pseuds/LadyTuesday) for the beta. All mistakes are still my own but she has made them considerably less!
> 
> Enjoy!

John marched over to the far side of the mostly empty room. He paced for several minutes, eventually falling into a chair at a table in the corner. John had no reason to be angry, at least not at Sherlock, but couldn’t seem to stop himself either. There wasn’t anything between them beyond friendship, and everything he’d thought Sherlock had done must have been his imagination or part of an act. _Of course he realized that Aunt May thought they were a couple_. He pondered the evening again. _He just played along for my benefit. Stupid… I’m a bloody idiot_.

 

As John sat staring into a void, lost in his own thoughts, Harry slipped into the room. She took a chair two over from John, close enough that he could talk to her but not so close that he would feel crowded. She waited. John was thinking his way through it all, she could tell, eyes flitting between Harry and the door. His right fist clenched and relaxed periodically as his anger roiled. The most telling sign that he was truly distressed, however, was the tremor in his left hand. He had it pressed hard to the table in an attempt to stop the trembling, but to someone familiar with its presence, the white knuckles didn’t quite hide the rippling of the muscles below. John made to tell Harry off several times, but when he opened his mouth no words came out, so he kept it shut. It wasn’t Harry’s fault, after all, and she was only trying to help.

 

Harry fidgeted for a moment before venturing, “John—”

 

His face snapped up towards hers, unable to contain the verbal emesis that fell from his mouth now that one of them had breached the silence.

 

“Am I really that much of an idiot that I fell for all that?! There were looks… words spoken… fleeting touches….” The doctor looked at his hands. “And not just tonight, but at Baker Street, too. Even during the Work, it would happen. Not as much, but still there.” John took a breath. “Am I so _stupid_ that I thought he _really_ cared about me?!” Harry’s brother exclaimed as his fist hit the table making her jump. “That he wanted _more_?” John covered his face with his hands, suddenly embarrassed by his outburst.

 

Harry was at a loss for words. “John,” she managed but didn’t know how to continue. All the evidence supported what John knew but Harry didn’t know how to push him back towards that conclusion now that he thought he had a different corrected one. She braced herself before asking, “Have you actually talked to him about how you feel? Asked Sherlock how _he_ feels?”

 

John gave her a look that threatened murder. “Did you miss that little display out there? Even if he did have an interest, it’s obviously not exclusive. And Peter lives in London, too, so it’s an easy enough relationship to pursue if he wants.” He continued, voice softer as he lowered his head again. “No one wants a broken husk of a man anyway.”

 

Harry’s heart hurt hearing him whisper those words, having said similar statements herself every time she sank back into a bottle, only to have Clara eventually drag her back out again. She would need to take a different approach.

 

“John,” she started, hesitating only a moment before continuing. “John, I’m going to say some things and you may not like them.”

 

John opened his mouth to protest but she raised her hand to stop him.

 

“No. You are going to sit quiet and listen. That’s an order.”

 

She stared at him until he gave a grudging nod. John leaned back in the chair, not happy about whatever verbal lashing he was about to receive.

 

“Now, I know you are a smart man but sometimes you are an obtuse, blind idiot.”

 

Daggers came at her from John’s eyes. She ignored them and continued.

 

“First, and most importantly, Sherlock does care for you a great deal. Secondly, Peter is already in a relationship and a good, strong one at that. And before you ask how I know, he showed me the engagement ring he bought. He’s going to propose this coming weekend.” She paused before adding, “Beautiful ring, by the way, you should ask to see it once you’ve got your head out of your arse.”

 

John gave her another contemptuous look, clearly not liking the banter she was including.

 

“And finally,” she continued, not caring one bit what he thought of her comments, “what you didn’t see when you threw your little fit out there was Sherlock’s look of panic at seeing you in distress.” She paused, seeing a similar look crossing John’s face. “The man was ready to push old Lady Winters out of the way to get to you.”

 

The logical part of John’s mind tried to tell him that this must be true, that Sherlock really did care, but the hurt part of him still tried to fight. “Then why isn’t he here consoling me himself?” He sounded like a petulant five year old in a strop.

 

“Because I wouldn’t let him.” It was a bit of a fib, Peter had really stopped Sherlock, but that would only have angered John further. “You two would have had a row and you know it.” She paused before adding, “I had Peter take him outside to calm down.”

 

The flair of John’s nostrils was the only reaction she got. Before John could reply his mobile chimed. He pulled it out and read the message.

 

_Unexpected snow storm. A11 and several other routes to London are closed due to inclement weather and severe accidents. You will need to stay the night in Cambridge. Driver already informed. –MH_

 

John read the message twice before tossing his phone to the table. _Great, now I’m going to be stuck in the same room with him._ John saw the questioning look on Harry’s face and slid his phone over. She read the message but didn’t understand.

 

“We’re in the same room.” When she still didn’t comprehend the implication he continued, “Aunt May has me and Sherlock in the same room, with only one bed, and right now I want nothing to do with the bloody git.” He snatched up his phone. “I’m going up to bed. Tell Aunt May I’m sorry but I’ve suddenly got a headache.”

 

Harry watched as he stalked out of the room, shoulders hunched in defeat.

 

\------------

 

Sherlock paced back and forth on the patio, mind racing over different avenues that might work to appease John. There were thirteen possibilities but none could guarantee a positive outcome; there were too many variables in John’s possible reactions. Peter was sitting on the low wall that enclosed the patio but was staying mercifully silent. The man’s conversation earlier had been enlightening but Sherlock didn’t feel up to the task of communicating with others at the moment. _I must somehow right this with John._ Sherlock stopped and stared blankly out towards the countryside, taking in none of the view. His mobile pinged. He thought to ignore it but decided to look on the off chance that it was John.

 

_Unexpected snow storm. A11 and several other routes to London are closed due to inclement weather and severe accidents. You will need to stay the night in Cambridge. Driver already informed. –MH_

 

Sherlock read the message, lips pressed into a firm line. At least a car ride together would have ended eventually, but now he must endure John’s anger throughout the night unless he could find a way to right it. He actually observed the land around him now and could see the dusting of snow covering most of it, the height of the house thus far blocking the snow from hitting the terrace. He contemplated sending Mycroft a reply, but decided that silence might annoy his brother more so he slipped his mobile back into his pocket. It’s not like it would change the outcome of the evening anyway.

 

“I am afraid we will have to impose on your hospitality,” Sherlock announced without turning around. “And you may want to inform any guests who travelled in to make arrangements to stay in the area if they hadn’t already planned to do so.”

 

Peter looked up, wondering who he was talking to and saw Aunt May standing in the doorway. She smiled, having already grown fond of the brunette and his mannerisms in the few hours she had known him. She looked at Peter and nodded towards the door. Peter didn’t need to be told twice. Standing up, he headed inside to simultaneously deliver the message and give the two some privacy. Aunt May stepped up beside Sherlock and eyed the snow for herself.

 

“Doesn’t seem quite so bad,” she commented.

 

“The storm is worse south of here and many of the roads are currently impassable.”

 

Aunt May nodded, refusing to look at Sherlock when she spoke. “Sounds like it may be a good night to sit in front of the fire, together with someone you care for, talking of everything and nothing.”

 

Sherlock’s lips pursed together again and his forehead creased. _This woman is far too perceptive,_ he decided. Then again, he greatly admired her mind and its abilities to observe. _I can see where John gets it all from._

 

Aunt May shivered. She wrapped her arms around herself, absently rubbing her biceps to induce some warmth. She spun herself around and proceeded to go back inside.

 

Before she reached the door, she twisted her head around and said, “I heard John went to bed early claiming a headache. He never was one to party much. You should find everything you need to take of him in your room, but if need anything else, just ask.” Not waiting for an answer, she continued inside and left Sherlock alone on the terrace.

 

He contemplated her words for a moment more before turning around, having made his decision. He casually strode through the hall until he left the festivities behind. He felt certain that John harbored the same feeling towards him that he felt for John, but until they disclosed those feelings, there was no way to know for sure. He took the stairs two at a time. Even if John rejected him romantically, sparing John the pain of thinking he would lose Sherlock to someone else would be worth the heartache. Sherlock looked up at the little blue banner, took a deep breath, and twisted open the door.

 

\-------------

 

John jumped, having closed the door behind him a bit more forcefully than he intended. He sagged against it, hanging his head. Eventually he pushed himself up and, eyeing the chair in the corner, strode over and flopped himself into it. He lifted his feet to the table and huffed a laugh as he was now in the same position that Sherlock had been. _Sherlock_. What was he to do about that? _For all the times I accuse him of acting like a child, here I am alone and pouting in a corner_.

 

John knew he was going to have to talk to the man eventually; avoiding all this was starting to cause more problems than addressing it. If Sherlock didn’t reciprocate his feelings, John didn’t think the damage would be so bad that he would need to leave Baker Street, but he still wanted Sherlock to know. John would rather be chastised for _sentiment_ (despite the fact that Sherlock harbored lots of sentiment underneath his shell) than die a little inside every time something like this happened. John thought about it a moment more. He nodded once briskly to himself then rose from the chair and strode to the door. Sherlock was still downstairs and John would go find him so they could hash all this out. John wasn’t sure what he would do but somehow he would let Sherlock know how he felt.

 

He grabbed the door handle and pulled it open, only to find himself with an armful of consulting detective.

 

“Sherlock!”

 

“John!”

 

They both exclaimed at once, scrambling to separate themselves. Both fiddled with their coats, avoiding the gaze of the other.

 

“Sherlock, look—“

 

“John, please—“

 

They both stopped and couldn’t help the giggles that escaped as they both stumbled over each other’s words. Sherlock examined his shoes as John rocked back on his heels, head turned up. John’s laughter suddenly caught in his throat. He continued to gaze up and couldn’t help swallowing thickly around the lump he now felt there.

 

Sherlock heard John stop laughing and instantly became worried. He looked up at the doctor only to see John’s gaze locked on something above him. Tentatively, Sherlock looked up. There in the recessed doorway was perfect sprig of mistletoe, complete with leaves, berries, and a pretty Christmas bow. Sherlock swallowed before lowering his gaze to John, whose piercing blue eyes were now locked on his. John’s eyes briefly darted to Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock lowered his head, leaning in towards John; the glance was the only encouragement he needed. He hovered over John’s lips for just a moment, giving the doctor a chance to retreat now that Sherlock’s intent was clear, before closing the distance.

 

As soon as his lips met John’s, Sherlock’s mind went blissfully blank. His only thoughts revolved around the current sensations he was feeling. _Warm lips, slightly chapped. Plush._ Pushing the kiss further ever so slightly, Sherlock tilted his head and moved his lips against John’s. _Moist._ John leaned into the kiss, asking for more, and Sherlock relaxed into it. The detective felt John’s tongue slide against his lips, seeking entrance but not forcing it. Sherlock moaned, lips parting. _Pleasure._ Sherlock’s tongue slipped out, meeting John’s amongst the crashing of their lips. John’s hands slipping under Sherlock’s waistcoat and his fingertips dug into the flesh of Sherlock’s back. His own hands slid up to cup John’s jaw, tilting his head back for further access. John’s tongue explored Sherlock’s mouth, any remaining uncertainty gone when Sherlock moaned again. They continued: tongues licking, lips crashing, hands roving.

 

Eventually, biology took over and John was forced to pull back, chest heaving in his body’s need for oxygen, with Sherlock in a similar state. John had been careful to keep his hips away during the heated kiss, not wanting to push the detective too far, as his arousal was more than evident against the front of his trousers. As they gazed into each other’s eyes, with walls down and souls wide open for the other to see, Sherlock’s desire was far from hidden.

 

A wicked smile spread across Sherlock’s lips. “Would you like to see some more?”

 

John hardly waited for Sherlock to finish before replying, “Oh, God, yes!” as he pulled the detective through the door.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just want to give a quick thank you to everyone who's read this fic, given comments, and/or left kudos! Hope you enjoy the ending and the journey to it!
> 
> Thanks also to my beta [Lady Tuesday](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyTuesday/pseuds/LadyTuesday)! She was a big help in making this more readable and with less mistakes.
> 
> Please let me know what you think of the ending with the aforementioned comments or kudos. You can also find me on [Tumblr](http://yourdykeinshiningarmor.tumblr.com/).

John back-stepped into the room, hands firmly planted on Sherlock’s angular hips. They paused momentarily as the detective twisted around to shut and lock the door. An evil grin crossed John’s face as Sherlock’s back was turned; just as he was fully facing the room again, John had him pressed firmly to the door, lips greedily seeking Sherlock’s.

 

“Oomph,” Sherlock gasped against John’s lips, ignoring the jarring sensation as his skull hit the door. “Bit eager, are we?” Not waiting for an answer, he leaned in, taking John's mouth in his.

 

John pulled away and began trailing kisses down Sherlock’s jaw, nipping at the flesh behind his ear, before placing moist kisses along his neck. John ground his erection into Sherlock as answer to the question.

 

Sherlock moaned in response. He could do nothing but relish the warm, wet feeling of John’s mouth licking and nibbling at his skin while the doctor’s hot length pressed against his own. A distant part of him noted that the two of them should probably discuss this before proceeding any farther but Sherlock couldn’t be arsed to care at the moment. He _did_ note that his pelvis had found a complementary rhythm to John’s thrusting, sending waves of pleasure through his body and a telltale heat pooled in his lower abdomen.

 

“Unless you want this end quickly…” Sherlock croaked out. He took a quick breath, momentarily amazed at how gravelly his voice had become with desire. “If you wish this to continue, I suggest we move the bed.” _Had his voice really dropped another octave?_

 

John paused, lips hovering over Sherlock’s suprasternal notch. The doctor’s mind, intoxicated as it was on the lingering alcohol in his system and the _scent_ and _taste_ of the man in front of him, momentarily warred over the options: he did not wanting to stop kissing but most definitely wanted this to last longer than a few minutes. It was a simple choice, really. John took half a step back and looked up at Sherlock, smiling. “Gladly.” John relaxed a bit, deciding to let Sherlock take the lead.

 

Sherlock gazed at John, watching as he took slow, deliberate steps backwards towards the bed. A fireplace Sherlock hadn’t noticed before stood in the far right corner of the room. While they were out, it had been lit and the diffuse light cast by the flames caused shadows to ripple over John; the dance of light and dark only increased Sherlock’s desire. His feet briskly closed the distance between them, eyes ravenous with need again.

 

John watched as Sherlock admired his retreating form, and he didn’t flinch when Sherlock rushed to him. The brunette’s hands ghosted up John's arms to his shoulders before gliding down his chest. Nimble fingers made quick work of the buttons on John’s jacket before he felt the press of palms against his chest. Sherlock eyed the ribbons on John's jacket and then coaxed the garment off John's shoulders with a quick flick of his wrists.

 

“I think I am beginning to understand your aunt’s fascination with individuals in military dress,” Sherlock whispered, the reverence and need evident in his voice.

 

John merely smirked, straightening his posture slightly into more of a parade rest. Sherlock’s hands briefly tightened on John’s forearms, the only signal of his increased arousal at the change.

 

Sherlock let the jacket fall from his left hand, absently tossing it towards the chair with his right. He didn’t need to turn around to know it had hit its mark. Next, his fingers deftly undid the bowtie, letting the ends dangle as he worked open the button on John’s shirt. With each bit of newly exposed flesh, Sherlock bent down and pressed a moist kiss to the flushed skin.

 

John's head dropped back with the first kiss. With the second one, Sherlock sucked a mark on the skin over his collarbone. John’s knees nearly gave out at the intense pleasure and he leaned back, gratefully meeting the soft side of the bed. John suddenly jerked back to the present as Sherlock rucked his shirt tails up out of his trousers. He looked into up into bright silver-blue eyes, pupils blown open with desire. John’s shirt and tie quickly ended up as a puddle of fabric on the floor.

 

Sherlock’s fingers danced across John’s chest, the man wonderfully responsive to Sherlock’s touch. He brushed over John’s right nipple first, gently circling the sensitive flesh. He watched as the nub perked up and pimpled under his ministrations before dipping his head to its twin and repeating the motions with tongue.

 

John sucked in a breath at the feeling of firm, wet heat circling his left nipple. His hips rocked forward involuntarily, desperately seeking friction. John took several deep breaths in an effort to control his rapidly escalating bliss. It wasn’t until he felt that same moist heat lipping over the sizable budge in his trousers that he realized that Sherlock had gotten onto his knees in front of John. The detective had also managed to divest himself of his shirt and coat. _I really must pay more attention_ , he thought. He gazed down, chest heaving, as Sherlock’s teeth grabbed the zip of his trousers and pulled down.

 

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John moaned, the sight nearly his undoing.

 

He took several more ragged breaths as he watched long, pale fingers skim up the sides of his legs and hook into the waistband of his trousers and pants. Slowly, so _agonizingly_ slowly, Sherlock removed what remained of his clothing, again employing teeth to lift the edge of John’s pants from the straining erection within. John groaned as the hot flesh met cool air.

 

“Budge up,” Sherlock commanded and John hoisted himself onto the edge of the bed. He slid John’s garments the rest of the way to the floor, removing socks and shoes at the same time.

 

Once naked, John slid across the satin surface until his back rested on the headboard. His eyes rolled back in his head at the feeling of smooth fabric dragging on his sensitive bits. He wondered if Sherlock realized how tactile he became during sex. _Of course he knows_ , he laughed to himself, _or he’ll figure it out soon enough_. A dip in the bed caused John to lift his eyes to the sight of a wonderfully-naked consulting detective kneeling in front of him.

 

“Gorgeous,” John breathed. “You gorgeous, gorgeous man.”

 

John had seen most of Sherlock at some time or another, the nature of their profession necessitating his doctoral skill in patching the detective up. To say that he had never appreciated the bits and pieces as he’d seen then would be a lie; however, see everything at once was simply breathtaking. Sherlock was a contradiction of hard angles and soft edges, dark hair against pale skin.

 

Sherlock lowered his eyes for a moment, suddenly self-conscious. When he lifted them to John’s, however, the amount of warmth and affection he saw within brought back his confidence. He crawled forward, cock heavy between his legs, and kissed his way up from John’s feet.

 

John marveled at the lean expanse of pale skin before him. Part of him still wondered if this was a dream. Sherlock was slowly situating himself between the doctor’s legs; John groaned at a soft bite to his thigh. Even though he watched it coming, he wasn’t prepared for Sherlock’s tongue pressing against the base of his cock and licking a wide stripe halfway up the shaft. John’s head fell back, audibly smacking the headboard. He felt Sherlock pause.

 

“I’m fine,” John whimpered, not bothering to look down. “And don’t you dare stop.”

 

John felt the grin around the head of his cock before he heard the chuckle that emanated from deep within the detective’s chest. John melted further as the rumbling of laughter collided with his cock that was now deep in Sherlock’s mouth.

 

Sherlock bobbed his head a few times before swirling his tongue around the head, lapping at John’s slit and tasting the first bit of salty pre-come. He took John in, nearly to the base, pulling back just before he felt the urge to gag, hollowing his cheeks as he went. John was incredibly sensitive and vocal; moans, groans, and whines, as well as the occasional word, drifted down from the head of the bed, creating a joyous sexual chorus. Sherlock moved his hand down to fondle John’s bollocks, gently rolling them between palm and fingers. He heard a muffled “fuuuuck” and glanced up to see John muting his desire to yell with a fist in his mouth. He continued with his ministrations until—

 

“Uhhh… Stop!” John exclaimed.

 

Sherlock tensed a bit but stopped, mouth hovering over the head of John’s cock.

 

“Too… too close,” John continued. “Don’t want it to end yet.” He swallowed before looking down at Sherlock and smiling. “That was amazing.”

 

Sherlock smiled back, gently kissing the crease between thigh and torso. Suddenly he let out an involuntary groan and he rocked back, angling his hips down towards the bed.

 

John head tilted to the side in question. “Sherlock,” he started, looking closely at the man below him. “Sherlock, what are you doing?” John had a suspicion but wanted to hear the man say it for himself.

 

Sherlock flushed and sat up; he placed his hands in his lap and curled his feet under him. “I may have….” Sherlock began but then stopped. He looked down at his hands before continued in true Sherlock fashion. “I was hoping you would be amenable to the act of anal penetration with me acting as the recipient.”

 

John couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped his lips. He quickly brought it under control seeing the look of discomfort that crossed Sherlock’s features. When the detective made to get up, John grabbed his arm to stop him.

 

“No, no, Sherlock,” he said quickly, pulling Sherlock towards him until they were sitting knee to knee. John gently placed a hand on the detective’s cheek and guided his face until they were looking at each other again. “Irene was right. Brainy is the new sexy.”

 

It was Sherlock’s turn to look confused. His gaze turned intense trying to decipher the meaning of John's words.

 

“I love it, hearing the way you speak,” he explained. “I know it’s English but it’s almost as if you have your own vernacular and I find it immensely sexy.” He paused before adding, “That and the fact that you were just fingering yourself open as you sucked me off.” He flashed a cheeky grin towards the detective.

 

Sherlock couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face. “Yes, well, I have no desire to prolong the time until I can seat myself upon your glorious… fat… cock.” Sherlock softly bit the side of John's neck with each word. He felt John melting beneath him, a deep rumble emanating from the doctor’s chest.

 

John bolted upright. “I haven’t got any condoms or lube!” He looked panicked. He knew he was clean and would believe Sherlock if he said he was, too, but didn’t really like the idea of just using spit for lubrication.

 

Sherlock jumped initially when John did but now he smiled. “Remember how Aunt May claimed to be too irreverent to be called ‘madam’?”

 

John nodded, unsure of how that solved their problem. He watched Sherlock lean over and open the drawer on the bedside table. He felt around towards the back and drew out what appeared to be a black cigar box. Sherlock opened the box and John watched his mouth make a big “O” at its contents.

 

“Well, then, what is it?” John was growing impatient.

 

“Your aunt really is a clever woman.”

 

Sherlock turned the box around for John to see. Inside were several types of lube (both flavored and plain, he had noted), condoms (both male and female), and an assortment of small novelty items (cock rings, pocket vibes, and the like). “I’d wager there is a similar box in the other drawer, as well as in the drawers of all the guest rooms.”

 

John marveled at the box for a moment before forcefully shaking his head, deciding he didn’t want to think of his aunt as a sexual creature. “Yes, well, I’m just going to ignore that my aunt put this here,” he said as he grabbed out a condom and a couple packets of lube.

 

Sherlock laughed and set the box back on the table after John grabbed what they needed. He turned back to John and snatched up the condom from the doctor’s hand before he could open it. Sherlock gave him a wicked smile as he ripped open the packet. Without pause, the detective popped the condom into his mouth and quickly swallowed John down. When he came up again, John was bucking into a mouth that was no longer there and his cock was sheathed in a condom. Sherlock wasted no time in twisting open one of the lube packets and slicking up the doctor.

 

John had barely recovered when he saw Sherlock crawling up and lifting himself up. He felt Sherlock grab his cock and line the head up with his opening.  Steel gray eyes looked piercingly into his and Sherlock lowered himself down onto John. They both let out a deep moan.

 

When Sherlock was finally flush with John's pelvis, he sat still for moment, letting them both get used to the host of new sensations. At a small nod from John, he lifted up slowly before bottoming out again. He leaned forward to catch John's mouth in his as he continued rocking on John's cock. He let their mutual need drive the pace and it wasn’t long before John found the rhythm and was bucking up into Sherlock.

 

“God, Sherlock,” John whimpered. “So tight… and hot…” he continued with each thrust. “Not sure… how long… I can last….”

 

“Almost… there…” Sherlock answered. He adjusted his position, leaning back and placing his hands on John’s chest for balance until he found just the right angle. “Oh, God, John!” he screamed. “Don’t… _fucking…_ stop!”

 

The pace became frantic, both lost in a sea of sensation and pleasure. John reached down and circled Sherlock’s cock with his fist, swiping his thumb over the tip with each upward thrust. One, two more thrusts into Sherlock’s prostate and the detective let out a massive groan. Ropes of come splattered across John's chest. John tried to hold out until Sherlock was done but the sudden tightness of Sherlock’s fluttering muscles from orgasm sent John over the edge. He thrust once more as he came then stilled.

 

Sherlock slumped forward, not caring about the sticky mess he was smearing across both of them. They lay panting and enjoying the afterglow they were enveloped in. John lifted his arms and encircled Sherlock, lazily rubbing circles on his back. After several minutes, Sherlock dragged himself up to a sitting position and glared down at his chest.

 

John laughed, “I’d say that’s your fault, but I had a fair part in that.”

 

Sherlock grunted and sent a good-natured glare at John before gingerly lifting himself off and rolling off the bed. He swiped the condom from John's softening cock and strode to the bathroom.

 

John closed his eyes and distantly heard the sound of the taps. Sherlock returned a few minutes later with a warm flannel and wiped him clean. He heard the wet smack as the flannel hit the floor wherever Sherlock had tossed it. John was nearly asleep as Sherlock crawled into bed, helping John shift under the covers. John shifted onto his side and Sherlock spooned up behind the doctor, throwing his arm over John’s hip.

 

“Sherlock,” he said, already half asleep, “that was remarkable.”

 

The detective huffed. “Idiot,” he smiled into John’s neck, the word having become an endearment for John. “Of course it was; look who was involved.” Sherlock was absently rubbing John’s side from ribs to thigh.

 

John gave a small silent laugh, lips curling in happiness. Drowsily, he muttered, “Love you, too,” as he burrowing his back further into the detective’s chest.

 

Sherlock’s hand stopped, his mind doubting for a moment what John just said. Before he could make any response or query, a soft rumble told him that John had fallen asleep. He wasn’t sure what to make of the post-coital sentiment (or what his response should be) but for once he decided to just ignore his mind’s desire to analyze and dissect. Instead he let his body drag him deep into slumber.

 

\-------------

 

It was early morning, the sun barely leaking in through the shut curtains, when John woke from a dream of Afghanistan. For once it wasn’t a nightmare; he had been wandering around a peaceful little town marveling at the wonderful, if mildly oppressive, heat with Sherlock of all people. _Sherlock!_ John realized that the heat he felt was due to the fact that Sherlock had decided at some time in the night that John would make a comfortable body pillow and that their limbs were better when entangled. Sherlock threw off an impressive amount of body heat that was quickly overwhelming John, but he was able to snake an arm and a leg out of the comforter, negating the necessity to wiggling out from his consulting detective blanket for the time being.

 

John was ruminating on the night before, frowning when he thought of their misunderstanding but smiling when he replayed the reconciliation. Something kept niggling at the back of his mind, something from right before he fell asleep. John couldn’t think of it so contented himself with dozing, rubbing lazy circles on Sherlock’s back with his free hand. His mind eventually drifted back to the amazing sex and suddenly it dawned on him. John’s eyes shot open and his hand stilled. _I told Sherlock Holmes that I_ love _him!_ The emotion was true but he definitely didn’t mean or plan to spring it on the detective after their first time together. _Obviously Sherlock has feelings towards me, but are they the same? Will he scorn me for such a deep, ridiculous sentiment?_ John began to worry. _Have I already messed this up? Just get things going and now I’m going to scare him away? Maybe I can explain it away by saying—_

 

“Stop.” He felt more than heard the rumbling baritone through his chest.

 

John looked down at Sherlock, nose meeting a head full of curls as he tried to see the detective’s face.

 

“You are thinking,” he clarified, voice still a bit gravelly with disuse. “It’s noisy and annoying this early in the morning.”

 

John tilted his head further, still trying to catch a glimpse of Sherlock’s features.

 

“Also, your thoughts are preposterous. Of course I love you.”

 

Sherlock curled himself tighter around John to drive his point home. He had been awake for some time, simply enjoying the feeling of John below him. It had given him adequate time to dissect his own feelings for the doctor and he had concluded that he did, indeed, love one John H. Watson. He had also determined that revealing this fact to John would be the quickest means to dissipating any lingering anxiety over the post-coital confession.

 

John let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding; it dissolved itself into giggles, though, before it was all out.

 

“This is why I love you,” he said through the laughter. “Didn’t mean to spring it on you so soon though, but there’s oxytocin for you.”

 

Sherlock laughed, too. “Ah, yes, the joyous cocktail of hormones my transport sees fit to excrete. All in the name of procreation, I might add, even though my predilection towards males would preclude such an occurrence.” He stretched himself out and turned to face John. He hovered over the doctor, hands on either side of John's chest. He looked into the bright blue eyes below him, seeing nothing but happiness and, yes, _love_. He smiled back before saying, “But for you, John Watson, I think I can make an exception to the ignoring of said biological imperatives. Is not the definition of insanity doing the same action repeatedly and expecting a different result?” He saw a wide grin spread across John's face before he leaned down and captured John’s mouth in a heated kiss.

 

\-------------

 

It was late morning before the new couple finally decided to get up and start the day. John looked out the window at the blanket of white that covered everything. Up close he could see that quite a bit of snow had fallen overnight. He was glad (for several reasons) that Mycroft had made them stay; he couldn’t imagine trying to drive home in that. He was pulled from his reverie by slender arms snaking around his waist and light kiss to his neck.

 

“Are you ready?” Sherlock asked, nuzzling a bit into the doctor’s neck.

 

“Yes,” he replied, leaning back into the detective’s warm chest. They had found that their clothes from yesterday had been laundered and placed in the wardrobe so they didn’t have to suffer in previously worn clothing.

 

John spun in Sherlock’s arms and gave him a quick kiss before pulling away and heading towards the door. John knew that if they didn’t leave now, it was likely they wouldn’t for quite a while longer.

 

The pair wandered down to the dining room, pleased to see they weren’t the only ones who had had a lie-in. Several guests were still lazily munching on bits of breakfast or just chatting while drinking their coffee or tea. John suspected there were more people than initially planned because of the snow storm, as the room was still set up with the tables from the ball. Sherlock strode over to the table with Harry and Clara, leaving John to fetch him his breakfast. John smiled and shook his head, glad to see some things weren’t going to change.

 

Sherlock flopped himself into a chair and watched John grab a tray. He met Harry’s and Clara’s morning pleasantries with a grunt, eyes never leaving John as he grabbed tea, toast, and assortment of food. When John arrived, he unloaded the tray, placing two mugs down on the table and single large plate of food in front of himself and sat down.

                                                                                                        

Sherlock picked up his mug, taking a tentative sip of the steaming beverage. “Thank you.”

 

John smiled around a mouthful of eggs; he pushed the plate closer to Sherlock and set a fork down next to the detective’s side of the plate. “Tuck in, if you’d like.”

 

Sherlock ignored the fork. “Not hungry.”

 

“Fine, suit yourself,” he replied with a shrug. He knew the detective’s game.

 

Before long, slender fingers were grabbing a piece of toast then a bite of egg. Grapes and half a banana disappeared, too.

 

It was Harry who first dared to say something. “So you two worked it all out then?”

 

She knew that they had, what with all the glances and small smiles, the absent touching neither realized they were doing. It was really kind of nauseating how sweet they were being. While she didn’t necessarily want to think of her brother in a sexual situation, it was clear that he and Sherlock had at least gone as far as snogged.

 

John looked over at Sherlock and grinned, “Yeah, I’d say we did.” He was grateful when the detective didn’t look back as he was sure he would snog the man right there in the dining room if Sherlock did.

 

Harry smiled in response. “Good, glad to hear it.”

 

Aunt May and Richard joined them some time later and they all chatted of nothing, simply enjoying everyone’s company. Sherlock was much more talkative than normal; he was still his surly self, needing to correct and expand on every subject discussed, but he did so in a surprisingly friendly manner, creating more playful banter between everyone instead of arguments. John suspected that Sherlock’s good mood from their morning activities had carried over. John also noticed Aunt May’s eyes frequently darting between him and Sherlock, and couldn’t help but wonder if she knew what had happened.

 

By early afternoon, everyone was departing, as the roads had finally cleared enough. They had said their good-byes to everyone else and were now standing outside their car with Aunt May.

 

“John, dear,” she said, grabbing John’s hands in hers, “you really must come visit more often.” She released John’s hands and turned to Sherlock, adding, “Both of you. It really has been a pleasure.”

 

Sherlock smiled and bent down, engulfing Aunt May in a hug. “Aunt May, the pleasure has been all mine.” He unfolded himself and stepped back. “I would honestly be delighted to visit again. Your home is beautiful and you are most decidedly _not_ boring. And I find your intelligence not only adequate but also intriguing.” He stopped and looked at the doctor before continuing, “John can certainly attest to the profound nature of that statement.”

 

Aunt May giggled, “Why thank you, Sherlock.” She shifted her attention to John. “So will I be seeing more of you lot then?”

 

John nodded. “If Sherlock isn’t bored of this place already, then, yes, I think you may.” He turned and looked at the front of the house, thinking for a moment. “You know as a kid, I always hated all the parties I was forced to come to, ‘family obligation’ and all.” He returned his attention to Aunt May. “But I think I will look forward to them now.” He gave her a big smile.

 

Aunt May grabbed John in a crushing hug. “And, of course, you’re welcome to stay the night any time you come, if you like.” She stepped away as the two headed towards the car. Sherlock was already inside with John perched halfway in when she continued. “Each room has one of those boxes, by the way. And they aren’t all the same in size or contents.” She gave John a bit of a slightly evil grin, not one to be bound by propriety when it came to referencing the sexual with a family member.

 

John’s face flushed a horrible shade of crimson as he realized what she was saying. His mouth opened in an attempt to reply but he found himself speechless. From within the car he heard a deep booming laugh as Sherlock, too, realized the meaning behind his aunt’s words and John’s embarrassment at them. Slender fingers wrapped around his wrist and pulled him the rest of the way in and they were off. He saw Aunt May smile knowingly and wave as they pulled out of the drive. Sherlock couldn’t control his mirth as they drove. _Apparently Sherlock really is going to have the last laugh._ Soon, though John had joined in and they didn’t stop laughing until they were both limp in their seats, tears streaking down cheeks and gasping slightly for breath.


End file.
